Library  of 
The  University  of  North  Carolina 


COLLECTION  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINIANA 


ENDOWED  BY 

JOHN  SPRUNT  HILL 
of  the  Class  of  1889 


i 


THE 

NORTH 
AMERICAN 
REVIEW 


Vol.218        DECEMBER,  1923  no.6 

The  Monroe  Doctrine  EDWARD  S.  CORWIN 

Economic  Policies  of  the  United  States— I  .      C.  REINOLD  NO  YES 

}  Mussolini  and  the  League  STEPHANE  LAUZANNE 

'"When  Germany  Occupied  France":  A  Reply  .  HANS  DELBRUCK 
John  Morley:  1838-1923    .     .     .     W.  L.  and  JANET  E.  COURTNEY 

Duse  STARK  YOUNG 

Earthborn   .    ALICE  BROWN 

The  Charity  of  Frost    .......    JOSEPH  AUSLANDER 

Lines  by  the  Bosphorous    .     .     .     HAMILTON  FISH  ARMSTRONG 

Possession  ARTHUR  DAVISON  FICKE 

The  Dreamer   M.  E.  CROCKER 

A  Christmas  City  of  the  Old  South    .     .     .  WINIFRED  KIRKLAND 

A  Prince  of  Light  Verse   ARNOLD  WHITRIDGE 

Nemi  and  the  Golden  Bough   SAMUEL  C.  CHEW 

Anastasia  Federovna's  Amerikanski  PAUL  WRIGHT 

Theocritus  in  Syracuse  ....  MARTHA  HALE  SHACKFORD 
The  Magic  Casement    .  LAWRENCE  OILMAN 

Affairs  of  the  World  WILLIS  FLETCHER  JOHNSON 


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THE  DREAMER 


BY  M.  E.  CROCKER 

If  in  the  greenwood  of  a  dream 
I  sit  as  still 

As  still  may  be,  and  hold  my  breath 
And  listen,  till 

Soft  rustlings  of  a  leaf  I  hear, 

A  whispering  bough; 

Catch  a  swift,  guarded  glance  that  darts 

From  a  branch — now 

If  in  that  greenwood  wild  and  sweet 
I  stay  so  still 

As  if  a  breath  would  wreck  the  world. 
If  I  wait,  till 

I  hear  a  soft,  soft  sound  that  seems 
Scarce  sound,  but  more 
The  thinking  of  a  bird  that  first 
Is  murmuring  lore 

Half-way  remembered  by  his  throat — • 
Catching  a  note 
Before  he  flings  to  melody, 
Be-starred,  remote — 

There  in  that  woodland,  while  I  stay 
Unmoving,  come. 
If  I  am  grown  into  the  moss. 
Things  that  were  dumb. 

Songs  of  remembered,  unchanged  dreams 
Float  close  to  me; 

Souls  that  were  hid  slip  out  from  flowers, 
Leap  from  each  tree. 

But  when  I  move  to  snatch,  to  trap 
A  song,  a  soul — 

With  the  first  finger's-breadth  I  stir. 
Lost  is  the  whole! 


A  CHRISTMAS  CITY  OF  THE  OLD  SOUTH 


BY  WINIFRED  KIRKLAND 

The  only  way  to  visit  old  Salem  of  the  old  South  is  with  a 
child's  heart  for  luggage.  Otherwise  this  old  town  in  the  middle 
of  North  Carolina  may  lie  before  your  eyes  actual  enough,  with 
its  old  streets,  its  old  houses,  its  old  Square,  its  old  Home  Church 
as  its  inmost  core,  and  Salem  may  welcome  you  with  the  gentle, 
unobtrusive  courtesy  peculiarly  its  own;  but  unless  you  have 
learned  the  wisdom  that  knows  how  to  put  away  grown-up  things, 
you  cannot  really  enter  the  Christmas  city. 

In  Salem,  of  all  places  I  have  ever  seen,  it  is  easiest  to  drop  from 
one's  shoulders  the  crippling  pack  of  maturity  and  become  once 
again  a  little  child  stepping  along  a  Christmas  road.  Of  all 
places  it  is  easiest  in  Salem  to  forget  the  jangle  of  faiths  and  of 
no-faiths  that  have  deadened  our  ears,  to  slip  away  from  the 
clangour  of  an  age  proud  and  fevered  as  ancient  Rome,  and  to 
listen  to  the  confidence  of  old  carols  ringing  along  moonlit  dreamy 
streets,  mysterious  with  the  black  of  magnolia  and  of  boxwood, 
or  to  hear  floating  down  from  the  church  beKry  high  up  under 
the  stars  the  silver  melody  of  the  ancient  horns  which,  better 
than  any  other  instrument,  express  the  soul  of  the  Moravian 
church.  A  most  musical  religion  it  must  seem  to  every  visitor 
who  yields  his  spirit  to  the  spirit  of  Moravian  Salem.  Not  only 
the  church  liturgy  but  also  the  everyday  life  of  the  community 
is  keyed  to  old  tunes  that  date  back,  some  of  them,  to  the  Bohemia 
of  five  centuries  ago,  and  were  familiar  in  Moravian  households 
in  the  days  when  John  Huss  was  martyred  for  the  beauty  of  his 
faith. 

There  is  a  spell  on  southern  Salem,  the  spell  not  of  a  dead  past 
but  of  a  living  one,  constantly  revitalised,  so  that,  as  one  walks 
these  uneven  red  brick  pavements,  one  is  haunted  by  memories 
of  long  past  Christmases,  thoughts  of  those  far  times  when  in 
secrecy  and  fear  the  Hidden  Seed  kept  its  feast  of  candles  and  of 


A  CHRISTMAS  CITY  OF  THE  OLD  SOUTH  791 


anthems,  thoughts  of  happier  festivals  in  Saxony  where  young 
Count  Zinzendorf  offered  the  heretics  the  refuge  city  of  Herrnhut, 
thoughts  of  brave  long  ago  love  feasts  right  here,  when  a  tiny, 
intrepid  band  of  colonists  sang  its  Christmas  chorales  in  the 
midst  of  endless  miles  of  wilderness,  while  wolves  nosed  and 
howled  at  the  cabin  door.  Along  with  these  Moravian  memories 
come  thronging  recollections  of  one's  own  childhood  Christmases 
in  all  their  unforgotten  wizardry,  so  that  here  in  Christmas 
Salem  I  seem  to  be  walking  again  the  midnight  aisle  which  leads 
through  a  great  wood  of  fir  trees  looming  black  against  high 
stars.  Just  as  at  five  years  old,  I  am  aware  again  of  mystery 
and  danger  and  bewilderment  lurking  far  off  in  the  forest;  but 
along  the  Christmas  roadway  there  is  no  fear,  only  joy  and  magic, 
for  it  lies  straight  as  a  shaft  of  silver  through  the  black  wood, 
and  along  it  troops  of  youngsters  go  dancing  onward.  At  the 
instant  that  the  children  pass,  each  dark,  bordering  fir  tree 
becomes  bright  with  tinsel  and  candles,  and  along  the  spicy 
twigs  gay  little  bells  stir  and  tinkle.  From  time  to  time  there 
come  snatches  of  happy  chants  echoed  among  the  tall  dim  trunks. 
Since  the  wayfarers  are  children,  they  know  that  the  soft,  un- 
earthly radiance  upon  the  road  before  them  is  the  long  beam 
from  a  star  not  yet  seen  because  it  hangs  so  low  above  a  stable 
cave,  and  they  know,  too,  that  their  silver  path  is  leading  all 
child  feet  toward  that  star.  Small  difference  for  children  be- 
tween that  spirit  light  of  Bethlehem  and  the  merry  twinkle  of 
Christmas  tree  candles.  For  them,  readily  enough,  their  own 
carol  singing  mingles  with  the  voices  of  herald  angels,  and  even 
Santa  Claus  himself,  all  ruddy  and  kind,  may  steal  to  the  stable 
door  and  gaze  in  on  a  Divine  Baby.  Even  so  are  Christmas  faith 
and  Christmas  fancy  interwoven  in  old  Salem,  where  white 
headed  men  and  women  still  have  their  Christmas  trees,  and  still 
with  their  own  hands  construct  beneath  the  green  boughs  the 
wonderful  Christmas  "putzes";  for  while  we  who  are  visitors 
must  retread  in  stumbling  unfamiliarity  the  Christmas  path, 
the  Moravians  of  old  Salem  have  always  kept  straight  and  clear 
within  their  hearts  the  child  road  toward  the  star. 

When,  a  few  days  before  Christmas,  I  arrived  in  Salem,  people 
told  me  I  had  missed  what  for  Moravians  is  always  the  opening 


792  THE  NORTH  AMERICAN  REVIEW 


key  to  the  Yuletide  season.  For  unnumbered  years  there  has 
always  been  sung  on  the  Sunday  before  Christmas  the  anthem  of 
The  Morning  Star,  written  in  the  later  seventeenth  century,  and 
set  to  music  in  the  nineteenth.  Although  I  never  heard  choir 
and  congregation  unite  in  its  mighty  joy,  I  seemed,  during  my 
two  weeks'  visit,  always  to  be  catching  its  echoes,  as  if  the  strains 
of  Christmas  minstrels  had  come  floating  back  to  me  where, 
unseen  in  the  distance,  they  had  passed  on  before,  along  the  silver 
lit  highway,  so  that  the  words  and  the  music  of  The  Morning 
Star  voice  for  me  the  innermost  spirit  of  a  Moravian  Christmas. 

The  anthem  has  both  the  quaintness  of  old  Germany  and  the 
vigorous  confidence  of  the  new  world,  so  that  the  old  words  and 
the  new  are  equally  expressive  of  the  unchanging  faith  of  present- 
day  Salem,  while  the  music  vibrates  with  the  sheer  child-gladness 
of  its  praise: 

Morgenstern  auf  Finster  Nacht 
Der  die  Welt  voll  Freude  machU 
Jesulein,  0  kommherein, 
Leucht  in  meines  Hertzens  Schrein. 

When,  in  stanza  two,  music  and  words  swell  out  into  grandeur, 
it  is  as  if,  out  of  the  black  forest  mystery  of  life,  some  hidden 
joyous  congregation  suddenly  pealed  forth  a  psalm  to  the  mount- 
ing Christmas  dawn: 

Morning  star,  thy  glory  bright 
Far  exceeds  the  sun's  clear  light; 

Jesus  be,  constantly, 
More  than  thousand  suns  to  me. 

For  the  holiday  guest  there  slowly  emerges  upon  that  glam- 
ourous woodland  roadway  of  his  child  memories  a  silver  lighted 
city,  gradually  shaping  into  the  everyday  reality  of  actual  Salem. 
As  I  look  out  from  the  window  of  the  little  gray  cottage  that 
harbours  me,  there  become  sharply  etched  against  the  mistiness 
of  dreams  the  tall  water  oaks  of  the  old  red  brick  Square,  the 
domes  of  boxwood  against  old  walls  of  buff  stucco  or  of  brick,  the 
stretching  flat  white  rows  of  gravestones  holly  trimmed,  the  white 
belfry  of  the  Home  Church,  where  in  Christmas  week  I  heard 
little  boys,  high  up  there  in  the  soft  December  sunshine,  sound 
the  trombone  announcement  of  death.    So  unobtrusive  and  yet 


A  CHRISTMAS  CITY  OF  THE  OLD  SOUTH  793 


so  sweet  were  those  strains  out  of  the  sky,  so  blent  with  the 
Christmas  air,  that  I  Hstened  to  them  for  some  time  supposing 
them  merely  carol-singing  floating  out  from  some  home  where 
the  family  had  regathered  for  Christmas. 

On  one  side  the  little  cottage  looks  forth  on  the  sunny  grave- 
yard where  Moravians  keep  their  dead  too  close  to  life  for  any 
sadness,  and  on  the  other  side  it  nestles  to  the  prouder,  taller 
buildings  of  the  Square,  laid  out  in  the  seventeen-sixties  by 
founders  who  established  Salem  as  the  central  city  of  their 
Wachovian  grant  of  seventy  thousand  acres,  to  be  built  and  to 
be  kept  a  city  meet  for  their  faith.  The  solid  eighteenth  century 
houses  still  remain,  skilfully  adapted  to  modern  usage,  or  unob- 
trusively altered.  Half  of  Salem  traces  its  ancestry  back  to 
those  earlier  days,  and  all  of  Salem  keeps  alive,  both  in  family 
life  and  in  public,  the  traditions  and  the  customs  of  its  unfor- 
gotten  builders. 

Perhaps  it  is  only  in  our  own  South  that  so  gentle  and  half 
romantic  a  faith  could  have  found  so  gracious  a  flowering  as  is 
typified  in  the  Easter  and  the  Christmas  customs  of  this  Salem 
of  North  Carolina.  There  is  a  blending  of  native  warmth  and 
glow  and  kindliness  in  the  spirit  of  this  Southern  Province  of  the 
Moravian  Church.  The  first  colonists  came  seeking  a  mild 
climate  and  friendly  neighbours,  and  found  both.  For  a  hundred 
and  fifty  years  Salem  has  been  true  to  its  first  purpose.  Long 
ago  it  was  a  little  refuge  city  of  peace  in  the  wilderness,  and  still 
today  it  offers  its  benediction  for  all  who  seek  to  penetrate  be- 
yond the  mere  externals  of  a  locality  into  the  inner  sanctities  of 
tradition.  Long  ago  a  brave  little  band  kept  to  their  secure 
daily  round  of  work  and  worship,  amid  perils  of  Indian  attack 
and  the  backwash  of  Continental  armies,  and  freely  gave  their 
hospitality  to  everyone  that  asked  it;  and  today  the  mind  of 
those  first  settlers  still  dominates  and  moulds  the  life  of  the  city. 
Yesterday  and  now  the  people  of  Salem  have  possessed  both  the 
art  of  shrewd  adjustment  to  the  contemporary  and  the  power  to 
withdraw  from  all  its  fever  and  conflict  into  the  peace  of  a  child 
faith.  With  quaint  literalness  those  early  founders  looked  upon 
themselves  as  all  members  of  one  family,  and  today  one  of  the 
strongest  impressions  of  any  visitor  is  that  of  a  great  household, 


794  THE  NORTH  AMERICAN  REVIEW 


close  bound  in  sympathy,  and  all  turning  toward  the  old  Home 
Church  as  to  a  central  hearthside,  while  up  and  down  the  worn 
old  streets  there  moves  the  form  of  one  still  young  at  eighty,  who 
in  himself  is  host  and  shepherd  and  father  of  all  the  city. 

One  wonders  if  the  inhabitants  of  Salem  fully  realize  their 
high  privilege  of  living  in  a  community  which  both  expresses 
their  religion  and  preserves  the  finest  traditions  of  their  ancestors. 
In  these  bewildering  days  it  is  the  lot  of  most  idealists  to  live  in  a 
solitude,  unable,  amid  the  surrounding  mists,  to  distinguish  the 
shapes  of  their  fellow  believers.  But  in  Salem  people  have  the 
sacred  advantage  of  dwelling  with  those  who  constantly  share 
and  reinforce  each  other's  faith  as  naturally  as  they  have  shared 
each  other's  childhood  and  each  other's  memories  of  the  old 
Infant  School.  Probably  Moravians  do  not  dream  with  what 
strange  nostalgia  a  visitor  listens  to  persons  who  treat  God  con- 
versationally, who  talk  of  Him  as  spontaneously  as  a  little  boy 
speaks  of  that  splendid  comrade  he  calls  Daddy.  Normally 
enough,  naturally  enough,  has  the  Moravian  spirit  been  able  to 
strike  deep  roots  in  our  own  South,  for  there  religion  is  still  a 
custom  unquestioned,  and  leisure  can  still  be  found  for  an  obso- 
lete. Old  World  culture,  and  intellect  still  bows  in  reverence  before 
the  soul.  In  old  Salem  of  the  old  South  there  can  be  no  blur 
upon  the  radiant  confidence  of  the  Christmas  story,  no  smirch 
upon  the  silver  purity  of  that  far  lit  path  toward  Bethlehem's  cave. 

In  Salem  I  feel  myseK  to  be  sometimes  in  Cranford,  sometimes 
in  Barchester,  while  all  reminiscence  of  those  two  familiar  home 
towns  of  the  fancy  is  touched  by  an  atmosphere  sacred  to  Salem. 
From  one  window  of  my  room  I  can  gaze  up  the  long,  silent 
avenue,  forbidden  to  all  vehicles,  that  skirts  the  high  ivy  hung 
picket  fence  of  the  graveyard.  Even  in  December  the  graveyard 
grass  is  vivid  in  the  sunshine.  I  am  so  near  that  I  can  almost  see 
the  crimson  berries  of  the  holly  wreaths  laid  on  the  little  flat 
marble  slabs.  Cedar  Avenue  lies,  a  white  path  at  the  heart  of 
Salem.  On  one  side  of  it  are  gateways  whose  sunny  arches, 
blazoned  with  texts  of  hope,  stand  bright  against  the  mystery 
of  shadowy  spruce  and  cedar  massed  beyond  the  triumphant 
little  gravestones,  marching  forever  onward  in  steadfast  Christ- 
mas faith.    Along  Cedar  Avenue  I  have  watched  a  funeral  pro- 


A  CHRISTMAS  CITY  OF  THE  OLD  SOUTH  795 


cession  move  with  confident  tread,  while  the  trombone  strains 
floated  forth  dehcate  and  clear  upon  the  New  Year's  morning. 

Another  window  of  my  room  looks  toward  the  old  Square, 
toward  the  Bishop's  home  beside  the  Bishop's  church,  toward 
the  aging  buildings  that  still  bear  names  witnessing  to  the  deep 
Moravian  reverence  for  the  family  as  a  holy  entity — the  Sisters' 
House,  the  House  of  the  Single  Brethren,  the  Widows'  House. 

A  simple  vital  reverence  for  tradition  is  as  characteristic  of 
each  individual  home  as  it  is  of  the  larger  home  life  of  the  church 
congregation.  In  the  tiny  cottage  that  offers  me  hospitality 
there  is  a  little  wooden  rocking  chair  carefully  treasured.  One 
turns  it  up  to  find  on  the  bottom  in  a  handwriting  too  alive  ever 
to  be  forgotten  these  words,  *'This  rocker  was  used  by  mother  to 
rock  all  her  nine  babies  to  sleep  from  1828—1844.  Keep  it  in 
the  family."  There  lies  on  this  little  chair  a  touch  of  that 
personal  immortality  that  the  home-going  dead  must  value;  and 
yet  it  is  only  a  little  wooden  rocker,  tawny  drab,  and  finely  lined 
like  an  old  parchment,  or  an  old  face.  It  has  no  arms,  therefore 
had  no  bumps  for  little  heads.  It  has  spreading  legs  and  rockers, 
and  on  each  rocker  is  painted  a  bunch  of  fading  wild  roses.  All 
the  little  home  is  gentle  with  old  memories.  Each  morning  at 
the  close  of  breakfast  I  listen  first  to  the  daily  reading  from  the 
Moravian  Textbook  for  the  year,  the  custom  of  the  Textbook 
dating  back  to  Count  Zinzendorf ;  and  after  the  Textbook  comes 
the  reading  from  birthday  and  memory  books.  As  I  listen,  a 
kindly  past  made  up  of  small  family  events  becomes  vital  for 
me,  the  guest.  Yet  the  little  cottage  is  alive  to  the  present  as 
well  as  to  the  past.  The  neighbour  children  blow  in  and  out, 
all  ruddy  with  ball  playing.  The  Moravian  is  a  children's  church, 
its  services  crowded  with  jolly  youngsters,  seated  as  happily 
beside  their  parents  as  seedlings  grow  around  a  tree.  To  Mora- 
vian children  the  story  of  a  children's  Friend  is  no  dead  tale. 
The  rosy  seven-year  old  Harold  who  comes  flying  so  often  to  our 
door  has  a  hearty  affection  for  Santa  Claus,  but  with  that  Other 
he  is  even  more  familiar.  A  few  weeks  before  this  last  Christmas 
a  little  playmate  died.  Harold  was  puzzled  by  the  sorrow  of 
the  grown-ups  and  protested,  "But  Louise  has  gone  to  Jesus, 
and  she  will  be  there  for  His  birthday." 


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The  star  faith  of  Salem  is  today  no  dying  creed,  but  an  im- 
perishable growth  in  the  hearts  of  young  men.  One  has  con- 
stantly the  sense  of  a  past  neither  decayed  nor  decadent,  being 
entrusted  to  younger  hands  that  are  vigourous  and  willing. 
One  seems  to  witness  the  very  act  of  a  sacramental  transmission, 
the  faith  of  one  great  united  family  being  handed  down  to  its 
sons.  In  the  big  house  next  to  our  cottage  I  saw  on  Christmas 
Eve  the  table  spread  for  a  family  party  of  thirty-two.  There 
was  the  cushioned  seat  for  the  grandmother  at  the  head,  and  the 
high  chairs  for  the  smallest  grandchildren.  Down  through  the 
center  amid  the  heaped  holly  and  carnations  extended  a  long 
green  board  holding  eighty  blazing  candles,  the  long  frame  hav- 
ing been  originally  made  for  the  Bishop's  birthday,  and  now 
borrowed  in  Salem's  characteristic  neighbourly  fashion.  But  it 
is  not  the  old  time  Yuletide  glow  of  the  stretching  Christmas 
table  that  will  longest  remain  in  my  memory,  but  the  chanted 
grace  I  heard  later  from  my  window,  a  grace  composed  by  the 
English  John  Cennick  nearly  two  hundred  years  ago : 

Be  present  at  our  table.  Lord; 
Be  here  and  everywhere  adored, 
From  Thy  all-bounteous  hand  our  food 
May  we  receive  with  gratitude. 

We  humbly  thank  Thee,  Lord,  our  God, 
For  all  thy  gifts  on  us  bestowed; 
And  pray  Thee  graciously  to  grant. 
The  food  which  day  by  day  we  want. 

More  impressive  than  the  rich  harmony  of  men's  voices  ringing 
out  upon  the  starlit  evening  was  their  utter  reverence;  and  these, 
it  must  be  emphasized,  are  the  voices  of  young  men,  young 
bankers,  young  merchants  and  lawyers  of  that  Twin  City  which 
is  made  up  of  two  united  towns,  one  new,  one  old,  named  on  the 
maps  Winston-Salem.  These  are  the  torchbearers  whose  first 
memory  of  their  faith  is  as  toddlers  brought  to  the  Children's 
Christmas  Eve  Love  Feast.  There  are  the  young  fathers  who 
now  bring  their  own  toddlers  to  hear  the  Bishop  tell  once  again 
to  children,  as  for  forty-five  years  he  has  been  telling  it,  the  child 
story  of  a  star. 


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There  are  persons  who  walk  the  Christinas  Hghted  path 
through  earth's  black  mystery  not  on  one  day  of  the  year  only, 
but  on  all  the  days  of  all  the  years.  The  Magi  were  subtle 
students,  keen  men  and  free  minded,  rich  with  the  long  inherited 
treasures  of  the  intellect.  It  was  their  science,  not  their  supersti- 
tion, that  revealed  to  them  the  birth  of  a  new  light  in  the  heavens. 
Bishop  Rondthaler's  eyes  are  a  seer's  eyes,  clear  blue  lanterns 
at  eighty.  His  face  is  of  the  type  transmitted  only  through  long 
generations  of  the  finely  educated.  There  is  not  a  child  in  Salem 
who  does  not  know  Bishop  Rondthaler's  smile.  Bishop  Rond- 
thaler's voice.  How  many  times  he  must  have  sung  that  old 
glad  anthem,  which  each  year  on  its  appointed  Sunday  rings  out 
upon  the  Christmas  road  of  Salem: 

Morning  Star,  my  soul's  true  light. 
Tarry  not,  dispel  my  night; 
Jesus  mine,  in  me  shine. 
Fill  my  heart  with  light  divine. 

The  Children's  Love  Feast  of  Christmas  Eve  is  a  custom  as 
old  as  Salem,  and  older.  More  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  years 
ago,  when  Wachovia  was  still  a  forest  wilderness  dark  with  perils 
of  wolves  and  bears  and  hostile  Indians,  the  Moravian  Brethren 
of  the  little  settlements  of  Bethabara  and  Bethania  welcomed  to 
the  children's  love  feasts  not  only  their  own  children,  but  those 
of  their  neighbours.  The  old  records  come  down  to  us  all  bright 
and  warm  with  Christmas  hospitality.  In  the  diary  of  the 
Bethabara  congregation  of  December,  1760,  one  reads: 

On  the  5th  it  was  reported  that  the  Indians  were  kiUing  again  on  the  Catawba. 
Br.  Ettwein  had  a  talk  with  a  Tuscarora.  On  Christmas  Day  the  English 
children  from  the  mill  came  to  see  our  Christmas  decoration,  they  were  so 
poorly  clad  that  it  would  have  moved  a  stone  to  pity.  We  told  them  why 
we  rejoiced  like  children  and  gave  to  each  a  piece  of  cake.  In  Bethania  Br. 
Ettwein  held  a  Love  Feast  for  the  24  children  there,  at  the  close  of  the  service 
each  received  a  pretty  Christmas  verse  and  a  ginger  cake,  the  first  they  had 
ever  seen. 

In  1761,  one  first  reads  of  the  giving  of  lighted  tapers,  that 
custom  never  yet  broken.  In  the  account  written  December 
24,  1770,  one  can  still  hear  those  far  off  carols,  still  see  the  twinkle 
of  candles  held  high  by  youngsters  dancing  homeward  along  the 


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dark  woodpaths:  ''At  6  p.m.  a  Love  Feast  was  held  for  the 
children,  appropriate  hymns  were  sung,  and  small  lighted  candles 
were  distributed,  which  they  joyfully  carried  home,  still  burning." 

As  those  first  settler  children  must  have  come  all  eager  to 
those  long  ago  celebrations  of  their  Moravian  neighbours,  so  today 
the  Christmas  Eve  crowd  is  composed  as  much  of  non-Moravians 
as  of  church  members,  all  flocking  to  the  old  Home  Church  of 
their  city.  For  half  an  hour  before  the  doors  could  be  opened, 
while  the  sunshine  of  the  late  afternoon  poured  over  us,  I  waited 
with  a  happy  throng,  fathers  and  mothers  and  grandparents, 
and  youngsters  of  every  age  from  one  year  to  twelve.  As  soon 
as  the  doors  admitted  us,  the  wide  arc  of  each  pew  was  instantly 
filled,  but  the  little  low  heads  were  not  all  visible  except  as  they 
popped  up  to  peer  around,  little  brown  or  blond  heads,  bobbed 
or  meticulously  curled.  The  church  hummed  with  little  voices. 
Now  and  then  a  baby  protested  sharply  against  being  repressed 
by  some  solicitous  mother,  but  for  the  most  part  all  the  noise  was 
happy.  The  long  window  which  showed  children  crowding  to 
Jesus's  welcome  was  still  clear  in  the  afternoon  light,  which  as 
the  service  proceeded  dimmed  to  shadowy  evening.  All  the 
Christmas  decoration  focussed  the  eye  upon  the  picture  above 
the  choir  platform  which  extends  across  the  front  of  the  church. 
In  a  deep  green  frame  of  shining  laurel  and  spruce  there  shines 
out  each  year  the  same  ruddy  illumination  of  Correggio's  Nativ- 
ity. On  each  Christmas  Eve  every  child  in  the  congregation 
looks  up  to  see,  all  bathed  in  glowing  light,  a  mother  bending 
over  the  Christ  Baby  in  his  stable. 

As  if  it  had  been  quaint  home  incense,  the  aroma  of  the  love 
feast  coffee  is  fragrant  through  the  church.  There  is  rustling, 
there  is  chatter  of  children,  and  yet  also  there  is  the  restraint  of  a 
great  reverence.  Then  a  hush,  and  everyone  is  listening. 
Somewhere  high  and  far  away  there  is  music,  silvery  announce- 
ment from  the  sky.  Grown-up  hands  touch  the  little  ones  to 
quiet,  that  all  may  hear.  It  is  the  trombone  players  in  the 
belfry,  but  how  easily  it  might  have  been  the  herald  angels! 
Soft  at  first,  then  in  growing  volume,  the  organ  takes  up  and 
continues  those  strains  from  overhead.  The  service  moves  on 
all  musically,  old  carols,  jubilant  anthems,  but  because  it  is  a 


A  CHRISTMAS  CITY  OF  THE  OLD  SOUTH  799 


children's  service  in  a  children's  church  it  is  brief  and  simple. 
It  is  not  long  before  the  two  doors  at  the  right  beneath  the 
gallery  swing  open,  and  a  reverent  procession  of  women  all  in  white 
enters,  bearing  the  baskets  of  love  feast  buns.  There  follows  a 
line  of  men  carrying  great  wooden  trays  of  the  straight  white 
mugs  of  love  feast  coffee.  Quietly  as  in  some  happy  sacrament, 
each  child  is  given  his  bun  and  mug.  Seated  in  front,  close  to 
them,  sharing  their  love  feast  meal,  the  Bishop  looks  forth  on 
his  children.  Gently  his  voice  breaks  upon  the  rustling,  and 
the  subdued  chatter  of  little  lips:  "Fathers  and  mothers  who  at 
this  moment  are  guiding  a  child's  hand,  as  he  eats  his  love  feast, 
one  too  young  to  know  what  he  is  doing,  pray  each  one  of  you 
that  at  this  instant  Jesus  Himself  may  come  and  be  near  your 
little  child  with  His  Christmas  blessing." 

When  the  bun  is  eaten,  the  coffee  drunk,  and  the  mugs  col- 
lected and  taken  away  by  the  silent  procession,  the  Bishop  rises. 
The  church  is  growing  dark  with  the  stealing  shadows  of  twilight. 
Never  has  the  Bishop's  telling  of  the  old  story  been  twice  the 
same.  To  him  it  is  forever  new.  He  speaks  on  the  brief  text, 
"Yet  for  our  sakes  He  became  poor."  The  babbling  of  little 
tongues  grows  still.  Young  eyes  grow  wide,  looking  into  the 
Bishop's.  .In  words  instinctively  pictorial  he  tells  us  there  was 
once  in  Heaven  a  marvellous  house,  golden  and  splendid,  where 
Jesus  lived  with  His  Father,  surrounded  by  love  and  tenderness 
and  beauty  beyond  any  telling.  Outside  of  this  house  were 
stately  trees,  and  lovely  flowers,  and  darting  birds  of  rainbow 
colors.  All  about  Jesus  in  His  house  were  angels  more  than  you 
could  count,  and  these  angels  asked  only  one  thing,  to  serve  Him. 
To  wait  on  Jesus  was  the  sole  wish  of  all  these  regiments  of  angels 
in  this  beautiful  house  in  Heaven.  Yet  all  this  love  and  all  this 
royal  splendour  Jesus  left,  that  He  might  come  a  little  baby,  too 
poor  to  have  a  cradle,  a  baby  born  in  a  stable,  laid  to  sleep  among 
the  cattle.  He  came  to  us,  all  poor,  to  see  whether  we  would 
love  Him  for  Himself  alone,  without  any  riches  of  money  or  of 
power.  And  still  today,  as  He  lies  there,  a  little  baby  in  a  stable. 
He  is  asking,  "Children,  will  you  love  me  for  myself  alone?" 
And  if  we  do  love  Him  for  Himself  alone,  pleads  the  Bishop's 
voice,  remembering  how  He  loved  us  enough  to  leave  His  splendid 


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home  to  come  to  us,  if  we  love  Him  and  try,  each  child  of  us  here 
in  this  church  today,  to  please  Him,  then  some  day  He  will  take 
us  home,  to  live  with  Him  in  His  beautiful  house  in  Heaven, 
forever. 

Gently  the  twilight  wraps  us  in  darkness,  more  carols  ring 
through  the  old  church,  then  on  each  side  of  the  organ  in  front 
of  us,  a  door  opens  and  two  women  in  white  appear,  the  van  of  a 
procession  which  moves  down  the  platform  steps  and  through 
the  aisles.  Each  woman  carries  a  lighted  candle,  and  each  pair  is 
followed  by  a  man  bearing  a  great  tray  of  blazing  tapers.  The 
women  distribute  the  candles,  one  to  every  child  in  the  congrega- 
tion. The  giving  of  the  candles  closes  the  service.  Theirs  is 
the  only  light  in  the  darkness  as  we  rise  for  the  Bishop's  blessing, 
and  then  afterward  pour  out  beneath  the  old  hooded  doorway 
into  the  starlit  Christmas  Eve.  Looking  back  one  sees  still 
faintly  discernible  the  figures  in  that  high  window  which  against 
the  outdoor  darkness  and  mystery  reveals  Jesus  blessing  little 
children. 

The  Moravian  is  a  children's  church  by  no  accident,  but  by 
long  conviction,  as  the  Bishop  himself  once  explained  to  me. 
When,  in  the  early  eighteenth  century,  the  ancient  Unitas 
Fratrum  of  Bohemia  experienced  its  great  revival  at  Herrnhut 
under  the  protection  of  young  Count  Zinzendorf,  there  suddenly 
occurred — as  it  appears,  quite  spontaneously — a  great  wave  of 
religious  enthusiasm  among  the  children.  The  quaint  touching 
account  comes  down  to  us  in  the  words  of  ten-year-old 
diarists.  Ever  since  that  time,  says  the  Bishop,  **Our  reverence 
for  childhood  has  been  founded  on  the  belief  that  a  child  can  be 
as  good  a  Christian  as  a  grown-up — and  perhaps  a  little  better." 
In  Salem  the  children's  Christmas  Eve  Love  Feast,  and  the 
Children's  Memorabilia  Service  at  New  Year's,  are  made  fully 
as  important  as  the  corresponding  celebrations  for  adults.  Just 
as,  in  the  afternoon,  the  children  come. to  receive  their  Christmas 
candles,  so,  a  few  hours  later,  the  grown-ups  gather  in  their 
turn,  for  their  reverent  Christmas  love  feast. 

Except  for  its  deeper  solemnity,  the  evening  love  feast  is  a 
repetition  of  that  of  the  afternoon.  The  crowded  church  is  a 
body  of  men  and  women  assembled  once  more  to  gaze  with  the 


A  CHRISTMAS  CITY  OF  THE  OLD  SOUTH  801 


Bishop  at  that  shining  picture  of  the  Nativity.  Again  there 
floats  down  upon  the  hushed  congregation  the  faint,  silver  music 
from  the  belfry,  sacred  minstrelsy  sounding  out  of  the  darkness 
to  be  taken  up  by  the  confident  organ.  As  the  congregation 
rises,  the  whole  building  resounds  with  the  joy  of  the  anthem, 
and  when  this  dies  away,  the  Bishop's  quiet  voice  asks  us  to 
continue  standing  while  he  reads  Luke's  account  of  that  long 
ago  night  in  Bethlehem.  There  in  the  old  Home  Church  of  old 
Salem,  the  story  of  the  first  Christmas  becomes  instinct  with  a 
mystical  reality.  Later  in  the  service,  which,  like  all  the  ritual 
of  the  Moravian  church,  consists  far  more  of  praise  than  of 
prayer,  the  Bishop  speaks  to  us  of  that  undying  narrative,  and 
as  his  steadfast  belief  leads  us,  children  following  his  eighty-year- 
old  guidance,  back  to  that  holy  birthplace  of  his  faith,  it  is  as 
if  we  trod  once  again  a  silver  pathway  bright  against  all  gloom, 
all  doubt,  while  sturdy  shepherds  and  glistening  angels  come 
thrusting  aside  the  darkness  to  companion  us  along  the  road  to 
Bethlehem. 

The  Bishop  reminds  us  that  a  great  literary  critic  once  pro- 
nounced Luke's  Gospel  the  most  beautiful  book  in  the  world. 
Of  this  book  the  second  chapter  is  the  most  beautiful  of  all. 
Thoughtful  readers  of  it  must  remember  always  that  Luke  was  a 
Greek  doctor,  highly  educated,  scientific  in  dealing  with  his 
sources.  He  was  Paul's  physician,  and  Paul  was  after  his  con- 
version the  familiar  friend  of  the  apostles  in  Jerusalem,  undoubt- 
edly the  friend  of  John  at  whose  home  Mary  lived.  We  may  well 
believe,  therefore,  that  the  story  of  Christ's  birth,  as  we  have  it 
in  Luke's  Gospel,  is  His  mother's  story,  coming  down  to  us  how 
near,  how  quick  and  alive!  Between  us  and  Mary's  own  voice 
telling  it  only  two  people,  Paul  who  transmitted  the  account, 
Luke  who  wrote  it  down!  The  Bishop  points  out  how  tender 
and  how  holy  is  the  chronicle  with  details  only  Jesus's  mother 
could  have  known.  As  the  most  sacred  thing  in  our  physical 
life  is  the  relation  of  a  human  mother  to  her  human  child,  so  it 
is  most  fitting  that  the  story  of  the  birth  of  a  divine  Child  should 
be  a  record  from  a  mother's  lips  of  mother  love. 

Beneath  the  illumined  scene  of  that  Nativity  which  focuses 
forever  all  Christmas  worship  on  the  holiness  of  a  family  group, 

VOL.  CCXVIII. — NO.  817  51 


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we  eat  the  Christmas  love  feast  that  symboHses  by  our  sharing 
of  food  and  drink  together  our  close  knit  membership  in  one  great 
family.  In  utter  quiet,  in  utter  reverence,  the  procession  of 
white  clad  girls  and  women  moves  slowly  down  the  aisles  distrib- 
uting to  every  one  present  the  love  feast  buns.  According  to 
custom,  each  one  of  us  wraps  our  bun  in  a  tiny  napkin  brought 
for  the  purpose.  On  one  corner  of  the  napkin  is  embroidered  a 
cross.  Then  at  the  entrance  of  the  men  with  the  great  laden 
trays,  the  high  white  mugs  of  coffee  are  passed  from  hand  to 
hand  along  the  wide-curving  pews.  The  solemn  hush  is  gently 
broken  by  the  Bishop's  words  pointing  out  our  unconscious 
courtesy,  courtesy  which  is  like  Christ's  own,  he  believes,  and 
which  cements  for  this  holy  hour  the  intimacy  of  our  kinship. 
He  asks  us,  while  we  wait,  to  sing,  ''Blest  be  the  tie  that  binds — " 
According  to  old  custom  the  Bishop  has  been  the  first  served, 
seated  by  the  communion  table,  close  to  his  people,  as  always, 
and  wearing,  as  always,  merely  the  ordinary  dress  of  his  fellow 
worshippers.  When  every  one  has  been  served,  then  the  Bishop 
and  congregation  together  eat  the  love  feast  bun,  drink  the  love 
feast  coffee,  while  the  organ  peals  forth  its  Christmas  joy. 

Musically  the  service  passes  on  to  the  candle-giving.  All  the 
church  is  darkened.  As  in  the  afternoon,  to  right  and  left  of 
the  organ  in  front  of  us,  doors  open,  and  two  by  two  the  white- 
dressed  women,  holding  each  her  burning  candle,  and  the  men 
carrying  the  long  trays  that  blaze  with  light,  enter  and  pass 
down  all  aisles  and  through  the  curving  gallery.  Beginning 
with  the  Bishop,  they  give  to  everyone  in  the  church  a  lighted 
taper,  slim,  green,  girdled  with  its  frill  of  crimson  paper.  Briefly 
the  Bishop  explains  the  meaning  of  the  Moravian  Christmas 
candles.  ''As  Jesus  came  that  He  might  be  a  shining  light  for 
us  in  a  black  world,  so  let  each  of  us  bear  a  light  for  Him." 

When  everyone  has  received  a  candle  the  procession  moves 
back  up  the  converging  aisles,  remounts  the  steps  of  the  plat- 
form, but  does  not  pass  out.  All  the  middle  space  in  front  of  the 
organ  is  a  screen  of  spruce  and  holly  and  dark  glistening  laurel, 
from  the  centre  of  which  the  Nativity  scene  glows  just  above  the 
Bishop's  head,  as  he  stands  facing  us,  his  figure  discernible  only 
by  the  light  of  the  taper  in  his  hand.    In  front  of  the  choir  doors. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CITY  OF  THE  OLD  SOUTH  803 


to  right  and  left,  are  grouped  the  women  all  in  white  except  for  a 
sprig  of  holly  on  the  breast.  Behind  them  stand  the  men  on 
whose  trays  is  still  left  a  mass  of  blazing  candles  rosy-trimmed. 
In  the  gallery  and  in  the  body  of  the  church,  people  have  become 
invisible  in  the  dark,  but  the  curve  of  every  pew  above  and  below 
is  outlined  by  a  shining  row  of  tapers  against  the  blackness. 
All  in  silence  we  have  risen.  The  Bishop  speaks,  *'Let  each  of 
us  at  this  instant  lift  high  his  candle,  so  that  Jesus  from  heaven 
may  look  down  and  see  the  shining  of  our  light  for  Him."  Then 
as  we  stand,  each  holding  high  his  tiny  gleaming  taper,  the  Bishop's 
voice,  melodious  from  out  the  engulfing  shadows,  leads  us  all 
as  we  sing,  "Praise  God,  from  Whom  all  blessings  flow." 

As  we  leave  the  church,  the  moonlight  is  pouring  down  on 
the  old  roofs,  the  old  streets.  Cedar  Avenue  lies  like  a  shaft  of 
silver  beyond  the  church  door.  Shadows  of  bare  trees  are 
etched  black  on  the  worn  pavements.  Moonlight  glistens  on 
the  ivy  walls,  on  the  long  leaves  of  the  magnolia  trees,  on  the 
towering  domes  of  boxwood.  Little  streets  and  old  alleys 
opening  on  the  Square  are  black  tunnels  of  mystery.  The  tracery 
of  the  water  oaks  is  delicately  clear  against  a  sky  flooded  with 
silver.  Salem  lies  as  still  beneath  the  Christmas  moon  as  if  it 
were  a  city  in  some  old  world  legend.  In  the  hush  there  goes 
still  ringing  sweet  within  one's  mind  the  music  of  ancient  trumpets 
from  the  sky,  the  melody  of  a  clear  voice,  reading  a  mystical 
story.  Today's  rushing  progress  seems  as  far  away  as  the 
clangour  of  the  trolley  on  the  next  street.  If  on  one  long  ago 
December  night  some  Roman  traveler,  posting  from  city  to  city 
on  a  tour  through  ancient  Palestine,  had  stopped,  puzzled,  to 
investigate  a  strange  light  coming  from  a  stable  cave  on  the 
outskirts  of  a  little  hill  town,  and  if,  as  he  approached  that  light, 
the  sky  above  his  head  had  suddenly  been  riven  by  angels  sing- 
ing of  a  new  born  god,  how  afterward  when  he  went  back  to 
that  bustling,  imperial  centre  of  the  world  would  he  have  related 
that  portentous  incident  of  his  journeyings.^^  In  what  words 
comprehensible  to  that  proud,  fevered  Rome  of  Augustus  Caesar 
could  a  Roman  traveler  have  translated  his  impressions  of  a  far 
away  little  village,  made  holy  by  faith,  a  far  away  little  village 
lying  in  peace  beneath  a  silver  flooded  Christmas  sky?  Would 


804  THE  NORTH  AMERICAN  REVIEW 


such  a  traveler,  as  the  crowded,  noisy  years  went  on,  cease  trying 
to  explain  to  anyone  that  strange  vision,  even  while  in  his  heart 
the  picture  of  that  midnight  village  grew  always  more  vivid, 
more  arresting? 

To  one  traveler  turned  aside  last  Christmas  time  from  the 
clamourous  streets  of  today,  to  walk  for  a  little  while  the  Christ- 
mas road  through  old  Salem,  the  memory  of  the  Christmas  city 
grows  ever  more  significant,  more  challenging.  The  glory  of 
imperial  Rome  has  faded  into  darkness,  but  does  the  road  to 
Bethlehem  still  lie  silver  clear,  beckoning  to  wise  men?  As 
long  as  little  children  shall  be  born,  shall  there  be  reborn  each 
Christmas  the  faith  in  a  God  who  became  a  baby?  Ringing 
through  midnight  streets,  echoed  among  the  black  overshadow- 
ing branches  of  mystery,  shall  there  sound  forever,  as  always  at 
Christmas  time  in  old  Salem,  the  praise  of  a  great  light? 

Thy  glad  beams.  Thou  morning  Star, 
Cheer  the  nations  near  and  far; 
Thee  we  own,  Lord  alone, 
Man's  great  Saviour,  God's  dear  Son. 

Winifred  Kirkland. 


Photomount 
Pamphlet 
Binder 
Gaylord  Br08. 
Makers 
Syracuse,  N.  Y, 

PAT.  JAM  21,  1908 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00023515475 


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notice  is  sent  to  you.  It  must  be  brought  to  the  North 
Carolina  Collection  (in  Wilson  Library)  for  renewal. 


